


Exigent Circumstances

by Graculus



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Multi, Napoleon Solo's sexploits, Poor Life Choices
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-03 20:49:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5306288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Graculus/pseuds/Graculus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Exigent circumstances: an emergency situation requiring swift action to prevent imminent danger to life or serious damage to property, or to forestall the imminent escape of a suspect, or destruction of evidence.</i>
</p><p>In which Napoleon Solo makes a number of choices, some better than others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He was certain Illya had been there. 

It was difficult to remember exactly what had happened, given that he was half-crazed with pain at the time, but Napoleon was certain he'd seen his partner there in the room, heard the ruckus he'd caused in rescuing him - that alone was something it would have been difficult to imagine, even though he'd lived through similar scenes before.

But when he woke it was Gaby sitting by his hospital bed, as he struck up towards the surface from the bottom of a dark lake, back to consciousness and residual pain the edge of which was only just dulled by IV medication. 

"About time," she said, leaning forward as if to gauge him more carefully. "I was starting to think you'd sleep all day." Her words were brusque but the sheen of unshed tears in her eyes gave the lie to their tone. "We can't all sleep the day away like playboys, you know?"

"Some of us need our beauty sleep." It was the response she expected and Napoleon saw her relax a little at it, even if he could begin to feel the morphine starting to loosen its grip, unwelcome as that was likely to be. "What day is it, anyway?"

"Friday." Gaby reached out and straightened the edge of his bed sheet, hands running over it as if it was the only thing in the world that could keep her attention. "He rescued you on Tuesday night." Her hands stilled and she leaned forward a little more. "I swear he looks worse than you do."

He almost asked for a mirror there and then.

\---------------

It had been his own stupid fault, a bad situation made worse by the fact he'd not expected things to go so horribly wrong so very fast. He'd learned a few things about himself over the years, about the way a frisson of pain could make the pleasure so much greater, and had never been reluctant to use that self-knowledge in the service of his country. It was the proverbial two birds with one stone, except when it turned out to be a different scenario than the one he'd originally thought, with a playmate who didn't know how to hear the word 'no', for example.

He could feel the swelling on his face, the tell-tale feeling of a black eye - not his first time in that particular rodeo - and the bandages on his wrists and ankles told another part of the story quite eloquently. Cleaned up, it wasn't so bad, but he wondered what he'd looked like when Illya found him. Nothing pretty, that was certain, nothing he would want anyone whose opinion mattered to see. 

Deep breaths weren't too much of a problem, so probably no busted ribs this time around. He remembered struggling, blows falling and falling no matter what he did, or said, or even screamed. Split skin at the edges of his mouth bore testament to how much noise he'd probably made before he'd been gagged and that this had not been gentle. At least, Napoleon thought, running his tongue around his mouth, he still had all of his teeth.

\---------------

The next time he woke, the chair was still occupied, but not by Gaby this time. She'd been so self-contained, emotions as tightly held in as her tears, and her posture had been an echo of that. Kuryakin was the opposite, but then he was asleep, sprawled out and head tipped back - if he listened carefully, Napoleon was certain he heard the whisper of a snore.

As if aware he was being watched, Illya jerked awake and was tense once more. 

He'd missed that sense of being comfortable with each other, over the past few months. When they first met, Kuryakin had seemed like a coiled spring pretty much all of the time, never letting his guard down even when it was safe to do so. Maybe never _knowing_ that it was safe to do so, all things considered. He'd relaxed, gradually, but there was still the possibility of an underlying tenseness and now it was back, this time in spades. 

"I wondered when you'd show up, Peril," Napoleon said, relishing the slight curl of a lip that familiar, yet half-loved, nickname always seemed to evoke. Truth was, if it didn't still rile Kuryakin a little, he'd have stopped calling him by it weeks ago. "Been napping on the job since we last met?"

"Finishing your mission." 

" _Our_ mission," Napoleon said. "Like it or not, we're a team, remember?"

"You remember." Kuryakin was scowling now, the expression fully-fledged, not the mild irritation of before. "What were you thinking?" The gesture he made encompassed all of Napoleon's body, head to toe, bandages and all. "What if..." Words seemed to fail him then, his hand dropping back into his lap as he looked down, shaking his head. 

"It's not as bad as it looks." It struck Napoleon, even as he said them, that those were probably not the best words he could have used. Not in this scenario and not with Illya, given that he'd been the one to extract him from the mess he'd got himself into this time around. "I'm sorry you had to see that," Napoleon continued, finding that those words were more honest than he'd expected he could manage. If he hadn't been taken off the morphine, he could at least have blamed that for this sudden attack of emotion, but he didn't have that excuse any more. 

"I finished mission," Illya said, "and this will not happen again."

"Oh?" There was a mutinous set to Illya's jaw that Napoleon wasn't certain he liked the look of. If there was one word that could be used to describe the Russian, 'stubborn' would be at the top of the list of adjectives anyone might choose from. "You know it's part of the job, like it or not."

"You would be okay if Gaby was the one in hospital bed?" Illya asked, crossing his arms. "Is okay for UNCLE to let this happen to her instead?"

Just the thought of it made Napoleon's stomach roll over uneasily - he was used to being on the receiving end of rough treatment, at times had sought it out for reasons best kept between himself and any court-appointed psychiatrist, but Gaby was a newcomer to the trade. While he had a lot of admiration for the way she'd played him and Illya in Rome, that was a million miles away from being able to run a good honeypot scheme without coming out the other end worse off than Napoleon was now. Maybe not physically worse off, but still, there were other places people could scar.

"You know Waverly wouldn't ask her to do that." 

It was clutching at straws, Napoleon was aware of that, but he knew it was true. Thank god, she didn't work for the CIA or KGB, who'd have far less scruples about using Gaby in any kind of operation that might come their way. 

"And Waverly is good man, but rules are different for you?" 

He didn't know how to explain, not to Illya for whom things seemed to often be quite black and white. How to explain that, at times, he not only went along happily with the idea of sex in exchange for information but also found that he sometimes craved it. That he _liked_ playing a role that didn't quite fit with his usual persona, letting himself be used in a way that he'd be embarrassed to admit - the kind of missions he'd been asked to do, at times, had suited him well _and_ met his own needs. And if he couldn't have that outlet, that way of letting off steam that also served the agency for which he worked, then what?

"Leave it alone," Napoleon said, finally. "And let me get some sleep."

\---------------

"You are such a jackass," Gaby said, prodding him in the arm with her finger.

At least she'd managed to miss the worst of the bruises, though he wasn't quite sure how she'd done that; he'd taken one look at himself in the mirror and wondered if Illya had thrown him down the stairs after rescuing him, given the variety of bruises he'd managed to acquire. 

"Owww," Napoleon said, pulling away from her as much as his still being in bed would allow. "And stop doing that," he continued, when she leaned forward and prodded his arm again. 

"You're being discharged today," she announced, as if he hadn't already been aware of the fact. "And you're coming home with us."

"Us?" He looked round and, as he should have expected, Illya was lurking just inside the doorway and looking no happier at the idea than he was. "Gaby, I can look after myself."

She didn't bother to respond to that statement, just started to pull the bedclothes down until he was forced to grab at them - the alternative, he supposed, would be her literally tipping him out of the bed and Napoleon was suddenly glad that it was her who was the instigator this time around, not Illya, or he'd already be on the floor. 

"Let me get dressed," he said, holding up a hand to try and stop her. "If you think this is going to happen, I need to get out of this hospital gown."

"Illya can help you," Gaby said, taking a step back and looking towards Illya. He didn't move for a moment, clearly as enamoured with the idea as Napoleon was, then seemed to realise he was beaten just by being there and took a step forward. "I'll wait outside," she continued, half-pushing Illya a little closer as she passed him on the way to the door. "Don't be too long!"

"I wish she didn't think she was in charge," Napoleon said, as the door closed behind her. "It's kind of terrifying."

Not that Illya being there was much better, given that the next thing he was supposed to be doing was getting dressed. Bad enough that Illya had been the one to get him out of there, probably bloody and possibly screaming in pain, but that seemed almost preferable to the idea of the aftermath being seen. An objective view of his injuries, Napoleon decided, would only help Illya be more convinced that Napoleon somehow needed to be protected from his own decision-making. 

"I can get dressed without any help," Napoleon said, deciding it was worth the try. "I've been doing it for years."

"You say we are team, but we are only team when you want something, not when there is something you need." 

He hadn't moved from where he stood just inside the doorway, so Napoleon supposed that was something. Illya was still close enough to grab him if he stumbled, but just far enough away that he didn't feel like a threat. Which was ridiculous, because he wasn't a threat any more than Gaby and her too-pointy fingers. 

"I have everything I need," Napoleon said, wincing as he put on his shirt. The bandages on his back would need changing soon, he'd seen the list of instructions the medics had put together and they didn't look like fun. Maybe he could get some help from his team after all, just this once. "Except someone to wait on me hand and foot," he continued, as if granting a favour. "Know anyone interested in the job?"

He'd just about managed to do up two buttons before Illya was there, his fingers busy with the rest of them and standing just a little too close for comfort. Napoleon was certain he'd jerked back a little at Illya's approach, but at least he'd been sitting down so the move wasn't too obvious and maybe Illya hadn't noticed his reaction. Denial seemed like as good a way to handle the current situation as any. 

"Can put on pants?" Illya said, picking up Napoleon's trousers and shaking them out before handing them to him - he would make the world's surliest valet, Napoleon decided, hoping that would never have to be his cover on a mission. "Or need help?"

\---------------

'Home' turned out to be one of UNCLE's various properties, this one a small house in what appeared to be the middle of nowhere, whose main selling point seemed to be that it was all on one level. They'd passed through a small town a few minutes earlier, the road running alongside the railway line before a turning just after a bridge had led to their current location.

"Let's get you settled," Gaby said, as she stopped the car. "Then I'll go into town for anything we haven't got."

At least he was able to get out of the car and into the safehouse under his own steam. Napoleon tried to ignore the way Illya and Gaby were watching his every move, practically hovering over him like he was about to collapse, but it wasn't easy. He'd never liked having to rely on other people - the army had been bad enough, but at least when people shooting at you that tended to reprioritise things. But the rest of the time? That was too much like needing someone for Napoleon to be happy with or even admit that it might be nice once in a while to have someone to turn to, if he needed help. Which, of course, he didn't. 

He supposed, since neither the CIA or UNCLE were inclined to send their agents to therapy, he would never get the chance to blame how he was on distant parents and a very hands-off upbringing. Napoleon was proud of what he'd achieved, well most of it anyway, though the whole post-war thing had been bad for a number of reasons he hadn't really thought about while it was happening. It had been easy to gloss over where the artwork he'd traded had come from originally, though he'd had plenty of time to think about that during his early days with the CIA. 

"That couch should be okay," Gaby said, as she opened the living room door and let him pass her. He was moving more slowly than he liked, more like an elderly man than a capable agent in his prime, but at least that would pass - he'd been beaten up, as well as beaten, often enough to know how his body would respond over time. Not that there was much chance of a repeat performance any time soon, given the way his partners were watching him. 

And that was going to be a problem.

\---------------

Gaby had left them alone as promised, leaving Napoleon on the couch and Illya checking the premises - he wasn't sure what the Russian was looking for, bugs or security issues, but if it kept him happy and away from Napoleon then it was all good.

It took longer than it ought to have done for Napoleon to realise Illya was back in the room. 

"We need to talk," he said. Napoleon had generally tried to avoid relationships, but even with the little experience he'd had of them, he knew those words didn't tend to come before anything good. "Now Gaby is gone, we talk." If anything, that sounded even more ominous, which took some effort. 

Illya sat down in a chair opposite where Napoleon was sitting, hands resting on his knees. His fingers were flexing a little, as if he wanted to be anywhere but there, preferably hitting something at the same time, and Napoleon knew exactly how he felt. Unfortunately, given his recent experiences, he didn't think he could make it off the couch and out of the room before Illya stopped him and he didn't want to test that theory. 

"Talk about what, Peril?" Napoleon asked, trying his best to look relaxed. As if he had cosy chats with his taciturn Russian partner every day, even though nothing could be further from the truth.

"We talk about sex," Illya said, his face heating a little as he spoke. He managed to get the word out, though, despite his obvious embarrassment. "Sex," he said again, as if proud of his earlier achievement and wanting to prove it wasn't a fluke, "and keeping safe."

He could probably smother himself with a cushion, Napoleon thought, his fingers tightening on the one that lay next to him on the couch. Except that wouldn't be enough to remove the memory of Illya Kuryakin and the word 'sex'. Twice. Two things he'd never considered together, never _allowed_ himself to consider because that way lay madness. He needed this whole arrangement to work, needed UNCLE to be successful - Napoleon was perfectly certain that Sanders would have him locked up in the nearest maximum security prison he could find if things didn't work out, just because he could - and part of making it work was not fishing off the company pier. 

Even in his limited dealings with other CIA agents, Napoleon had seen how quickly things like that could go wrong. Besides which, what was there to talk about? He found both his partners physically attractive - he wasn't blind or stupid, after all - but that wasn't enough compared to the possible repercussions when things inevitably spiralled out of control. Napoleon didn't claim to know much about the way things were run in the Soviet Union, but somehow he doubted that there were many gay bars or bathhouses the other side of the Iron Curtain. 

"Sex," Napoleon repeated, flatly. "You really want to talk about this. Again."

"No," Illya said, which was honest, at least. "But we will." He leaned forward as he spoke, clearly still a little embarrassed but pushing past it with a visible effort. "You want sex with men. Also have sex with women. And want them to hurt you." He shook his head, though Napoleon wasn't sure what he was disagreeing with - the sex part or the hurting part? Either way, it was none of his business.

"Yes, yes, and yes." Napoleon found he was starting to get a little annoyed with this now, particularly as he didn't see where it was going - Illya wasn't usually the most difficult person to read, but Napoleon was currently having a hard time deciphering the expression on his face. "All of which is precisely none of your business." It didn't hurt to spell it out, since Illya didn't seem to get that simple concept.

Illya's face darkened a little at Napoleon's tone, which had been more abrupt than he'd intended. Except maybe he _did_ intend to be that abrupt - what did this have to do with Illya anyway? None of it was anything to do with him, as long as Napoleon did his job, and that was just the way Napoleon liked it. 

"Is my business when you are hurt." Okay, well maybe there was that - a simple rationale about how much they relied on each other being in the best of health, ready for anything. "So now is also my business to make sure you get what you need without being hurt."

It took a moment for Napoleon to work his way through that sentence - by the time he'd got to the end of it, he was sure his mouth was hanging open, which probably made him look like an idiot. Or, more accurately, someone who must be misunderstanding what his partner was saying. Because there was no way that Illya was offering what Napoleon _thought_ he was offering. Was there?

\---------------

The door opened, the sound of heels on the wooden floor heralding Gaby's arrival - she was holding a grocery bag on her hip but it didn't look like she'd bought much food. Maybe they weren't going to be stuck here all that long after all? Napoleon decided that was a hope he'd cherish, at least till it was cruelly dashed.

"Get the rest, would you?" she asked, smiling at Illya. Damn.

Illya didn't put up an argument, just got up from the chair where he'd been sitting and headed for the door - they'd both learned quite early on in their partnership with Gaby that it was all but useless to argue with her. It was much easier in the long run to do what she wanted, letting her maintain a benevolent dictatorship that probably worked quite well for all of them, though Napoleon didn't want to admit it and would rather die than tell her so. 

"Tell me," Gaby continued, depositing the grocery bag on the coffee table and stopping in front of where Napoleon sat, "had Illya started to explain our little plan?"

Suddenly the whole scenario made a kind of odd sense - thinking about it as being something Illya had dreamed up was just bizarre, but Gaby? She had a kind of sideways approach to things that served her well as an agent and this seemed to be linked to that way of thinking. 

"You're joking. He was joking." She was standing between Napoleon's legs now, then had one knee pressed to the sofa cushion between them, which meant she was straddling his thigh. "Wasn't he?"

"We wouldn't joke about your welfare, Napoleon," Gaby said. She leaned forward, her thumb brushing across his bottom lip - Napoleon winced a little as it hit the broken skin at the corner of his mouth but otherwise tried not to move. "Don't you know us both better than that by now?" The fingers of her other hand insinuated themselves into the hair at the back of Napoleon's head, short nails scratching his scalp lightly. "We only want what's best for you. Both of us."

"This isn't happening," Napoleon said, sure he was going to wake up in his hospital bed any moment, only to discover this was some weird morphine dream. Gaby's weight on his leg, her fingers in his hair, all argued the opposite though. "It's a ridiculous idea."

Gaby shook her head, as if a little disappointed in Napoleon's lack of imagination, then leaned forward again - this time it was her mouth on his, not her thumb, stealing any further comments he might have to make on the matter. Her fingers tightened in Napoleon's hair, holding him in place while she kissed him thoroughly, her knee pressing lightly against his growing erection. 

"Very nice," Illya said, from the doorway. "If hands were free, I would applaud." He was holding more grocery bags, enough to keep even his appetite under control for a little while, but was watching the two of them like he was the front row audience at a particularly interesting show. "Gaby is good kisser, yes?"

She half-turned to grin at Illya, letting Napoleon catch his breath for a moment and surreptitiously pinch himself. He wasn't dreaming, all this was really happening, which meant that Illya's proposal was also real and apparently it wasn't just Illya who was proposing it. Gaby's free hand had dropped to Napoleon's groin; her fingers were deft, unbuttoning his fly and then finding their way into his underpants. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this hard, this quick - normally painkillers took the edge off for a while, making it difficult to become aroused, but the ones he'd taken in the hospital had clearly left his system if what Gaby was finding was any evidence. 

"Does this look like a spectator sport?" Gaby asked, throwing the words over her shoulder at Illya, who hadn't moved. 

"Pah." He turned towards the kitchen, clearly intent on getting rid of his burden and then what? Joining in? Gaby was kissing her way up Napoleon's neck now, the occasional run of teeth along the tendon interspersed. "Someone must make sure we do not starve."

"His loss," Gaby said, leaning back a little as her hand finally freed his erection from his underpants. "Though I guess food would be good." Her hand on Napoleon's cock was sure, confident, all the things he'd suspected might be the case but would never actually ask a lady to prove. Gaby's fingers curled around his length, the calluses an interesting sensation, her thumb flicking over the tip a couple of times. "Still, there's plenty we can be doing while Illya's being all domesticated..."

Napoleon thought back to the first time he'd met Gaby Teller, the moment he'd first seen her as she slid out from under that damned car of hers, and compared it to now. She was still too young and too _nice_ to be comfortable with what she was doing now, no matter what she wanted anyone to think. He could imagine it, so easily. Gaby would shift back a little, deft hands slipping her panties down so she could ride him; she'd be hot, muscles clenching around his erection, making sure Napoleon didn't hurt himself any further by doing all the work, hands on his shoulders and fingers biting in as she came around him. 

And it would all be wrong. Something Gaby was doing for a reason Napoleon didn't quite understand and needed to. Because he'd always tried to keep work and pleasure separate and didn't see any way this could go other than wrong. Because she was better than this. 

"No," Napoleon said, taking hold of Gaby's wrist and removing her hand from his erection. He was close, close enough that he had to take a deep breath before speaking, otherwise his words would have shaken their way out of his mouth and that wouldn't do. "I don't think we can."


	2. Chapter 2

Some might consider him the biggest fool who ever lived, turning down the offer Gaby and Illya were apparently making, but that wasn't at the forefront of Napoleon's mind as he levered himself up carefully from the couch. Once Gaby had got off his lap, of course, which she did without too much complaining, though she had disappeared into the kitchen in search of Illya quite soon after she got to her feet. 

A twinge in Napoleon's back reminded him of what he'd been through, even as he replayed the last few minutes in his mind. It was all totally ridiculous, an utterly harebrained scheme that could never work in a million years. 

What he needed wasn't their pity, it was the chance to rest and metaphorically lick his wounds, preferably in private. At least as much privacy as he was likely to get with both Gaby and Illya determined to prove some kind of point. Maybe they thought he was some kind of addict, that he _needed_ sex in order to survive, but that just wasn't the case. He had sex as part of the mission when he needed to and then he had sex outside the job because he wanted to; they were totally different things and there was absolutely no need to mix them up. 

Leaning heavily against the wall, Napoleon peered at the closed doors leading off the living room and wondered behind which one he would find a bed. 

"Here," Illya said, emerging from the kitchen with a glass of water in hand. "I think painkillers, yes?" 

He held out a couple of tablets and Napoleon took them with more gratitude than he'd expected to be able to muster - the sex thing aside, he had to admit that they worked pretty well as a team. They'd all had experience of looking after each other on more than one occasion, as missions never seemed to run quite as smoothly as they might, and there was no shame in accepting help when it was offered. At least, some help. 

"Thanks," Napoleon said, taking the tablets from him and then the water. He was starting to feel a little worn at the edges - truthfully, he wondered if getting laid might make him feel better, but the idea of going through with their ridiculous plan just didn't seem to be something Napoleon could tolerate right now. "I'll take a raincheck on dinner." 

He opened the nearest door, which turned out to be the bathroom. The next was a bedroom, one with a single bed, and Napoleon decided that this was the best option for the time being. 

"Gaby said you turned her down," Illya said, taking back the glass and turning it in his hands as if he needed something else to focus on. "You have problem with our plan?"

Napoleon shook his head. He'd need to be at the top of his game to deal with these two, if he was going to stand any chance of setting them both straight, and that was definitely not how he was at the moment.

"Another time," he said. "It looks like we'll be here for a while, we can sort this out."

He hoped they could sort this out. Because working together was going to be difficult to say the least, if they weren't able to get past this. Illya didn't look convinced, but he didn't press the matter any further, just watched in silence as Napoleon went into the bedroom and closed the door behind him.

\---------------

He felt a hell of a lot better after a couple of hours sleep, though Napoleon had to admit that it was his stomach rumbling that had woken him and nothing else. By the look of the light falling through the window, it was late evening. For a moment, despite how hungry he was, Napoleon considered staying in his room till the others would have gone to bed, but that was ridiculous - they were all adults, they all got to say 'yes' and 'no' to anything they were offered, and Gaby's offer of sex earlier was no different. She hadn't argued with him when he'd turned her down, so that was something.

Besides, he was sure he could smell something good out there and wondered just what Illya had rustled up from those grocery bags. Usually Napoleon was the cook, but sometimes Illya would take over, insisting on something more 'traditional' than Napoleon was prepared to make - by 'traditional', Illya usually meant potato-heavy and suitable for a Russian winter. Not that there was any problem with comfort food, but Napoleon usually preferred his to be a little less focussed on root vegetables.

He'd slept in his clothes, which was a sure sign of how tired he'd been - Napoleon opened the bedroom door carefully and it gave him the opportunity to scout the lay of the land for a couple of minutes before actually emerging. He could see Illya, who had returned to the chair he'd occupied earlier and was staring balefully at his chess set - no surprises there. Meanwhile Gaby was lying on her stomach, stretched out on the floor in front of the fire, idly turning the pages of a magazine without much apparent interest in its contents. 

It took Illya a moment to realise he was being watched, which said how relaxed he was - normally he'd be aware of any scrutiny almost as it began, which was a quality Napoleon both envied and regretted on his behalf. On missions, Illya was often wound very tightly, which didn't do his temper much good, so it was good to see him relax enough to let down his guard a little. 

"Feeling more like yourself?" Gaby said, responding to Illya's movement by looking round. Her smile looked genuine, not forced as Napoleon had expected might be the case - it was always awkward, dealing with someone you'd turned down, especially at the 11th hour. "I bet you're starving by now, though, we ate hours ago."

She didn't get up, knowing her place in the scheme of things. Gaby had many skills, that much had been apparent from the first moment they met, but culinary prowess was not amongst them. Not that she minded reaping the benefits of being the non-cooking partner in their arrangement, given that both Illya and Napoleon were reasonable cooks themselves. 

"I could eat," Napoleon said, coming into the living room. Illya got up as he approached, but headed in the direction of the kitchen, as he'd hoped would be the case. The last thing he needed was another difficult conversation - one had been enough, more than enough to last him a lifetime. "What's on the menu, Peril?"

Napoleon tried to sound casual and relaxed, as if he hadn't just woken up in a world where his partners would routinely discuss his sex life and then try to persuade him to let them join in on it. Because that kind of world would be a crazy one to live in, wouldn't it? He wasn't certain how relaxed he sounded; his voice sounded a little odd to his own ears, as if he had taken a step outside his body and was observing the proceedings. Delayed concussion, perhaps? Anything was better than thinking all of this was a normal state of affairs.

"Illya made borscht," Gaby said, "but of course you probably guessed that was what was on the menu, right?" 

If anyone sounded tense, Napoleon had to admit that Gaby was the leading contender right now - she was looking everywhere but at him, eyes flicking away from him as if her earlier confidence had blown away. 

"Sounds good," Napoleon said, though he wasn't particularly a fan. Anything was an improvement on this awkwardness - he'd have eaten week-old noodles if he didn't have to deal with the aftermath of earlier events. "I'll check that out," he continued, edging towards the kitchen. He could hear Illya moving about in there, the clink of cutlery and crockery as he organised things for Napoleon like the world was still turning the way it always had.

\---------------

This, Napoleon decided, as he ate his borscht, was exactly why you should never shit where you eat - not that he'd use a term like that out loud in a million years, even if it fitted this scenario like a glove. They'd been working so well together, each learning how the others operated till they could almost predict what one another would do next, and that had all been for the benefit of UNCLE. And now, because of him and the crazy ideas they had about him, it was all falling apart.

For a moment, Napoleon wondered if it would have made a difference if they'd approached the matter more subtly. Would he have responded better to being seduced rather than being handed a proposal? The way they'd tackled the matter, he'd almost expected to be given a detailed plan at some point, drawn up in triplicate, with diagrams attached. Turn down the lights, power up the projector, time for a slide show of how to get into Napoleon Solo's pants in the most efficient manner, with two alternative plans to try in case Plan A didn't work. He could almost imagine it. 

Maybe that was the problem, or part of it at least, that they'd approached things in such a matter of fact manner. It had been tackled like a transaction, something that needed addressing in the same way they'd plan the extraction route from a mission, deciding the best route to take and laying down alternatives just in case. 

It wasn't that it was both of them, Napoleon was certain of that and though he was many things, he tried his hardest to be sure that a hypocrite wasn't one of them. He'd always had an eye for the ladies but he'd have to be blind to miss the way Illya looked at him sometimes - not often enough for Napoleon's liking, he would have to admit - like he'd done something particularly notable and the Russian just wanted to admire him for a while. He was probably the same about Illya at times, if he was honest with himself. 

He'd thought about what it would be like to have sex with Illya, just as he had fantasised about Gaby, and with equally little idea of how the reality might compare. It was impossible to tell whether Illya knew what he was letting himself in for, when he'd made that exquisitely uncomfortable declaration earlier. Did he have a secret himself, a closet that he camped out in (no pun intended) or was he inexperienced in the ways of sex with men but prepared to give it a try for Napoleon's sake? Napoleon considered the possibilities and decided he wasn't sure which of them he liked least.

He stirred his spoon in the borscht, his appetite suddenly waning. The more he thought about this, the less he liked any of it. It was all just a little self-sacrificing, as if Napoleon was the only one who would get any pleasure out of such an arrangement and the other two would lie back and think of the Soviet Union and East Germany respectively. 

It would be quite something if they could make this arrangement work, though. He was still annoyed at the fact they'd sprung this on him, making it sound like they were doing him a favour when all three of them stood to benefit, if matters were dealt with properly. 

He thought about that, stirring the dregs of his soup idly with his spoon, imagining Illya Kuryakin laid out on his bed, the light streaming in from the windows across all that skin and muscle. Napoleon's bed, of course, in his apartment and with his high-count Egyptian cotton sheets. He had no idea what Illya's place was like but he doubted that it had anything like the luxury to which Napoleon intended to remain accustomed for the rest of his natural life. And Gaby would be there too, though he was struggling to quite figure out if his bed was actually big enough for the three of them, given the size of the two men in this particular calculation - it fit two quite well, as he knew to his benefit, but three? That was something new, uncharted territory, no matter what the others might think of his experiences to date. 

"You don't like?" Illya said, coming back into the kitchen and catching Napoleon both playing with his food and lost in thought. "Never mind. There is cake, if you want. And we have coffee." 

Illya was focussed on the contents of the fridge, rummaging through it with the door open between them so all Napoleon could see was the lower part of his body, which was quite disconcerting. Not that he was complaining about the view, or the way the material of Illya's trousers clung across the muscles of his thighs, taut across his buttocks as he bent over to choose something or other. Napoleon had no idea what the Russian was looking for, but he hoped it would take a while to find. 

No, the idea of having sex with Illya was no hardship at all, the addition of Gaby to the mix was an added and unexpected bonus, and he intended to ensure that they all enjoyed it. After all, he had a reputation to live up to.

\---------------

Somehow, Napoleon managed to avoid a repeat of the awkward conversation he'd had with Illya for another two days, though he didn't miss the way Illya looked at him when he didn't think Napoleon was looking. If anything, he looked more downcast than embarrassed; the look reminded Napoleon of a child with their nose pressed against the candyshop window, unable to get to what was inside but determined to keep looking anyway.

Gaby had also kept her distance, which was a little unsettling. Napoleon had to keep reminding himself they didn't know each other all that well, though their little jaunt through East Berlin, let alone the things that had followed, had forged a bond between them. If they'd been partnered in the usual way, he suspected, it would take time for their working relationship to grow and for any kind of extra-agency friendship to begin to be built. 

Not that Napoleon had much experience of working with other agents during his time with the CIA - Sanders had been quite clear he didn't want any of his precious agents contaminated by a longer acquaintance with Napoleon than was absolutely necessary and so he'd worked with a large number of other agents, often only for a single mission. It was not, Napoleon was certain, the best way to run things, unless of course you were a short control freak who thought everything a certain agent touched was likely to be poisoned by the things he'd done in a previous life. 

As he considered the alternatives - nine more years with Sanders, would he have even survived that, assuming they really planned to let him go at the end of it? - Napoleon once again blessed the existence of Alexander Waverly. For all his faults, and Napoleon was certain he had them, like any other human being, he seemed to have a much firmer grasp of just how to handle people in order to get the best out of them. He'd certainly coached Gaby sufficiently to ensure she could play a clever game at their expense, while all along Napoleon had thought she was a wide-eyed innocent. Not that he thought that of her any longer, no matter what Illya might imply; her little performance on the couch the other evening had helped put the final nail in that particular coffin. 

So, now to make this work. Since he'd had time on his hands, with no desire to have further awkward conversations and little to do except eat, sleep and read, Napoleon had spent part of that time thinking about seduction. It wasn't something he often gave much conscious thought - he didn't deny he was handsome enough, he could work at being charming when it suited him to do so, and he had an ability to read people and figure out what they wanted. A lot of his success with both men and women had come from that last quality, giving people what they wanted when sometimes they didn't even know it themselves. 

The question was this: what did Illya and Gaby want, from him and from a relationship with him and with each other? Answer that, make sure that happened, and Napoleon knew he was on the home straight. 

He was certain he could be the person they wanted him to be, if he could just identify exactly what that person was and be sure he could juggle their competing demands at the same time. Illya wanted someone to rely on, though he would probably never put it as bluntly as that - he'd always done as he was told, working for Oleg and the KGB, but Napoleon got the impression he'd been very much a lone operative and that wasn't really his style. It wasn't his style either, though he'd tried his hardest to make it work, and he realised that now, if a little reluctantly. 

As for Gaby, she wanted to be given permission to do things she didn't think were possible, colleagues who would dare her to push herself just that little bit more. Not that she was lacking in talent, that could never be said of her, but she wasn't going to be walking highwires any time soon unless she believed she didn't really have a choice but to do that in order to impress them.

Of course, that didn't quite answer the question: how could he be both those things to Illya and Gaby and make them believe it was true? What if, despite his own better judgement, he _wanted_ those things to be true of himself, to be able to get what he needed from them and not have to look elsewhere?

\---------------

The next few days passed even more slowly than Napoleon had thought they would, though he had to admit that the idea of regular meals and plenty of sleep was probably helping him heal faster than usual. Not that he'd admit as such to his companions, though they seemed keen to help him out in any way he'd let them.

There had, Napoleon was very glad, been no repeat of Illya's awkward conversation about sex. 

Not that there needed to be, since now the seed had been planted, it seemed to be all that Napoleon could think about. He didn't think that Illya and Gaby were watching him any more than they usually did, but he was infinitely more aware of it - there were also whispered, furtive-looking conversations between the two of them when they thought he was asleep. Since Plan A hadn't worked, he was still conscious of the possibility of Plan B or even Plan C, if he was really unlucky. 

"Why are we here?" Napoleon asked, one morning at breakfast. There'd been no mention of how long they were staying and no communication with UNCLE - as far as he was aware, though of course he didn't follow Gaby and Illya round so he couldn't be completely certain of that. "We should get back to New York."

Illya and Gaby exchanged a look. 

"Does Waverly even know where we are?" Napoleon continued, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. God, they had stolen him from the hospital and nobody knew where they were. They had both collectively lost their minds and he was heading back to prison, courtesy of Sanders' sadistic streak, just because they'd hatched a crazy idea about him and sex. "Please tell me this is all sanctioned."

"Waverly knows," Gaby said. "It's just that..." She seemed to be searching for the right words. "The man you were with, the one who hurt you, he disappeared."

"Disappeared?" Napoleon was certain he sounded like an idiot right now. Even now he couldn't remember much about the circumstances that had led him here, the way he'd talked himself into Fenton Briggs' bed, the things he'd agreed to do and the distance Briggs had travelled beyond that agreement. "We're here because Waverly thinks I'm in danger?"

The concept was an annoyance, stinging him where it hurt - not physically, but in his sense of being able to look after himself, in the years he'd done just that without any major problems. Even if a small voice inside reminded Napoleon that he hadn't done that good a job with Briggs, that he had in fact needed Illya to rescue him from his own folly. He resolutely ignored that voice, choosing instead to focus on what Gaby was saying. And not saying. 

"It's a possibility," Gaby admitted, focussing a little too closely on her plate for him to completely believe her. "It seemed like such a good idea, Napoleon," she said, suddenly. 

Gaby dropped her fork, her hand shooting out to grab his wrist - Napoleon managed to stop himself from flinching at the suddenness of her movement, but it was a close-run thing. Across the table, Illya sat and said nothing. 

"I don't need protective custody," Napoleon said, ignoring the hold Gaby had on him. Luckily she was sitting to his left, so he was able to carry on eating his oatmeal as if this conversation wasn't vitally important to his already-battered self esteem. Damn Waverly, if he got the idea Napoleon couldn't do his job, then what was next? Sorry, Mr Solo, perhaps it's best you return to the CIA? "Tell Waverly I can come back to work."

He looked between Gaby and Illya, uncertain for a moment which of them he needed to convince. Neither of them would be easy to sell on the idea, particularly with this nonsense about his sexual activities still hanging over them, but perhaps if he seemed to agree to what they were proposing then they would see this gesture as the white flag it was and support his views to Waverly? Except, Napoleon realised, that was pretty much going against everything he had told himself he was going to do - he wanted to be the person they wanted him to be, not the kind of man who'd use sexual favours, or at least the promise of them, to get his own way. 

"Please," Napoleon said, not wanting to be any more manipulative than necessary. "One of you must be in touch with headquarters, I need to go back to New York." Time for something a little more drastic, a gesture that wouldn't be at odds with what he wanted to do in the longer term. "I'll be safer there than climbing the walls out here."


	3. Chapter 3

He wasn't sure what had tipped the balance in his favour, but the following morning Illya told him they were heading back to New York. 

Napoleon still wasn't certain if they were communicating with UNCLE headquarters or if this was really some kind of rogue mission that Gaby and Illya had cooked up between the two of them. He hadn't been able to keep an eye on them both continuously, so it was quite possible that they'd been in touch with Waverly without his being aware of it, but it was equally possible they were making it up as they went along. To be perfectly honest, Napoleon wasn't sure which idea concerned him the most. 

"Is there any news on Briggs?" he asked, as they closed up the safehouse. 

Gaby was gathering the last of the perishable food, while Illya did a last reconnoitre of the property in search of anything they might otherwise have forgotten. Napoleon's job, he'd been told firmly by Illya and then Gaby, was to sit on the couch and wait for them to finish, but that didn't preclude his asking questions. 

"Gaby?" She turned off the fridge, propping the door open slightly, and put the last couple of items into one of the grocery bags. "Is it that you don't know or you don't want to tell me?" Napoleon could find out for himself just as easily when they got back to headquarters, of course, but the pleasure of annoying his partners was something not to be missed. "Illya will tell me, if you won't," he continued, even though he wasn't sure that was true. Illya was just as protective of him and equally likely to lie if he thought it was in Napoleon's interest - it was a trait that simultaneously pleased and annoyed Napoleon in equal measure. "Gaby, you know you want to tell me."

"Ask Illya," she said, walking past him towards the door. "See how far that gets you."

Well, it had been worth a try. Napoleon got up from the couch, ignoring Gaby as she put on her coat and opened the door, hefting the grocery bag on her hip. He could have helped her out, but since he was injured that would probably only get him another lecture and he'd had plenty of those from both his worrywart partners since arriving here. Instead, Napoleon decided he would look for Illya and see if he actually could get any information out of him - it would be good practice for his interrogation skills, if nothing else. 

He found Illya in the bedroom he and Gaby had been sharing. That wasn't an uncommon arrangement, since all three of them had a flexible approach to who slept where - Illya in particular could fall asleep standing up, if necessary, which was a skill that Napoleon definitely wished he could master. Illya was on his knees beside the bed, reaching under it for something or other, his face pressed against the side of the mattress.

"Lost something?" Napoleon asked, leaning against the door frame. 

He had to admire the view, the way the material of Illya's pants stretched, the long line of his back as he tried to do... what was Illya doing, anyway? 

"Is something under bed," Illya said, then made a small sound which sounded more triumphant than anything. "I have it." 

He'd been as stubborn as usual, Napoleon realised, when Illya was forced to shove back against the bed to get his arm out from beneath it. He'd wedged himself firmly under the frame in search of whatever it was; 'it' turned out to be a brassiere, not one of Gaby's if the size of it was anything to go by. 

"Well, that's interesting," Napoleon said, as Illya dropped the offending item into the trash, then rubbed his hands on his trouser legs as if the lingerie had tainted them somehow. "Pretty sure you can't catch anything from one of those." Illya didn't look convinced. "So, is Waverly expecting us this afternoon?" Napoleon continued, keeping a close eye on the Russian's face as he asked what he knew was a pretty loaded question. 

"Is long drive," Illya said, without meeting Napoleon's eyes. That wasn't good, not good at all. "Maybe we go to headquarters tomorrow instead."

Or maybe never, was the unspoken continuation of that sentence. Not precisely a lie but not the whole truth either. 

"Illya, Waverly doesn't really know where we are right now, does he?" There, he'd asked it outright again, and was wondering now if he would get a different answer from the one Gaby had given him last night. She'd seem so believable too, and that was a gift not easily learned if you were an agent, but that didn't meant it was the case. 

"He will know soon," Illya said. That statement didn't fill Napoleon with a great deal of confidence, but he could see from the Russian's face that it was the best he was going to get. 

"Well, if you're finished rummaging around under the beds," he said, deciding that changing the subject was the best idea for all concerned, "then maybe we ought to get going."

\---------------

He wasn't sure what was going to happen when they got back to New York. It wasn't so much whether they were going to headquarters or not, that was a secondary concern when compared to exactly how Illya and Gaby thought he should be spending the rest of his time. Napoleon was certain that, even if they would let him go back to his own apartment, he probably wasn't going to get to be alone there. Not even if he asked them nicely. 

He wasn't sure how he felt about this turn of events. Sure, the more time he spent with them, the more Napoleon could try and be the person they wanted him to be, but there was also a greater chance of things going wrong. After all, even the best actor in the world could only sustain a persona for a limited amount of time and he had no illusions about his abilities in that area. The more time they spent with him, the more chance there was that they would realise he really wasn't the person they seemed to think he was and that would be the end of that. And now they'd extended the metaphorical olive branch, even if that consisted not of wood but of regular sex and whatever else he needed, Napoleon was reluctant to turn it down. 

He was unsurprised when, instead of going back to his apartment building, the car drew up outside Gaby's place. Not that Napoleon had any problems with where Gaby lived - it was a nice enough apartment, not the worst place he'd ever stayed in by a long way - but it wasn't his own space. It also meant that he wouldn't be left alone here, since at least Gaby herself would be at home and probably Illya as well. 

Still, he ought to try and make the best of it. 

Gaby had loaded Illya down with the remaining groceries, splitting the rest of the luggage between herself and Napoleon. At least, Napoleon thought, Gaby's building had a lift and they didn't have to tote the bags up any number of flights like they would have at the rat-hole Illya called home. At least, he suspected that would be the case - while Napoleon had taken the time to scope out the neighbourhood Illya currently called home, he hadn't got around to getting inside and seeing just how his taciturn partner really lived. That had, for some reason Napoleon couldn't quite put his finger on, seemed like a step too far; an invasion of privacy that he wouldn't have liked and had therefore been reluctant to commit where Illya was concerned, though he wasn't quite sure what had stopped him. 

"Here we are," Gaby said, pushing her apartment door open. Dropping the bags she was carrying just inside the door, she pulled a gun from somewhere - Napoleon had missed the move, so he'd been more than a little surprised when an UNCLE-regulation pistol appeared in her hand - and quickly checked they were alone. "Briggs doesn't know about me," Gaby continued, returning to where the other two stood at the door. "At least we think he doesn't, but I thought I'd better check the place was secure anyway."

His encounter with Briggs had taken place in a high-end hotel room, one which Illya had thoroughly trashed in rescuing him if Napoleon's patchy memory had anything to say on the matter, so the idea that Briggs knew where he lived was a little worrying. Not, of course, that Napoleon had kept his own address that much of a secret when it came to seducing a number of local socialites - female and male alike - so it wouldn't have taken all that much detective work on anyone's part to find someone who knew where Napoleon hung his hat. In fact, it was probably something of a miracle that nobody had tracked him down at home any sooner, if he was honest with himself. 

"Let's get you settled," Gaby said, as Illya headed into the kitchen. He looked completely at home here, in Gaby's apartment, casually putting groceries away as if he already knew where everything went. "The couch is pretty comfortable, Napoleon. Or there's a spare room if you need to lie down."

"How much time do you and Peril spend together anyway?" he asked, opting for the couch as he did so. Napoleon didn't want to admit he still felt below his best, but the idea of lying down on the couch appealed greatly even after a long car ride. "He looks pretty comfortable in the kitchen."

Idly, Napoleon turned to watch Illya over the back of the couch. If he'd been able to summon up the energy, Napoleon wondered if he ought to feel jealous of the rapport between Illya and Gaby. They were obviously comfortable with one another, that ease dating back to almost when they'd first met, though he got the impression their early dealings with one another hadn't been completely smooth sailing. 

"Are you jealous?" Gaby asked. "I mean, he's still not 100% house-trained but I've done the best I can with him."

"I am not pet," Illya said, from the kitchen. No surprise, as Gaby had made an effort to speak loudly enough that Illya wouldn't miss what she was saying. 

"He says that," Gaby continued, with a conspiratorial smile, "but he likes it really."

Napoleon had turned to look at Gaby - she sat now a little closer to him than he'd expected on the couch - but he heard Illya's answering snort anyway. 

"What's on the menu?" he called, turning his attention back to Illya. "And don't say borscht, because now we're back in civilisation at least there's always take-out." 

Not that Illya was a bad cook, by any stretch of the imagination, as he'd ably proved during their time in the safehouse. It was just that sometimes, a man needed fast food rather than haute cuisine, and this was probably one of those times. 

"Pizza?" Gaby asked, getting up from the couch. "You know the place down the street does all sorts of toppings."

"I can cook," Illya said. To be honest, though it was hard to tell from the back since he was still putting things away, Illya sounded a little put out by Gaby's insistence on ordering in rather than letting him do what he wanted. "Is no problem."

"Deciding vote," Gaby continued, turning to Napoleon. "Since we're still technically looking after you, what would _you_ like for dinner?"

Illya had finished what he was doing and came back to where Napoleon sat. If he'd had to describe the Russian's face right now, the word he would have used was disgruntled. Not quite enough energy to be angry, and over such a minor subject too, but definitely not pleased with the direction in which things were going. And wasn't this one of his roles, within these relationships he'd unexpectedly acquired, to play peacemaker from time to time? Napoleon had to admit he probably hadn't worked at it as hard as he could have, but here was an opportunity to turn over a new leaf, to start as he meant to go on, and all those kinds of platitudes. 

"If Illya's happy to cook," he said, "then I say we let him."

Now it was Gaby's turn to be unhappy, this time definitely with him rather than with life in general. 

"Oh, you always side with him!" she said, turning on her heel and heading into one of the other rooms, the door shut somewhat forcefully behind her. 

In the living room, Illya and Napoleon were left looking at each other, a little bemused by Gaby's dramatic reaction to what had seemed to Napoleon a simple decision on his part - she had, after all, said he had the deciding vote and now she didn't like the way he decided?

"I get pizza," Illya said, as the echoes of the slammed door reverberated around Gaby's apartment. "Is best."

\---------------

Later, when Gaby had calmed down and they'd all eaten what Napoleon was forced to admit was extremely good pizza, he took the opportunity to put the subject of Briggs back into play.

"I can't stay here while you go look for Briggs," Napoleon said, wiping his fingers with a napkin. He decided to refrain from making statements about what they'd need to do to him in order for him to stay behind, as he didn't want to give them any ideas. "And I want a straight answer from both of you this time: what's UNCLE's role in all this?"

Napoleon didn't miss the way that Gaby and Illya glanced at each other briefly before either of them spoke. 

"You're right about Waverly not knowing everything," Gaby said, finally. "He knows what happened with Briggs." Napoleon tried not to think about that conversation, or indeed Waverly's response to the idea one of his agents had been badly beaten by a man in the course of a sexual encounter, and not for the first time. "But he doesn't know where you are right now." Except that, knowing Waverly, he'd probably figured it out for himself right about the time that Napoleon's partners went missing too. 

"Is too dangerous," Illya said, taking over the conversational thread. "We do not know if Briggs has contacts in UNCLE. He knew you were agent, when he..." His words trailed off and Napoleon was amused despite himself at the slight flush on Illya's face as he searched for a discreet way of talking about the situation in which Illya had found him. "He knew who you were, that is all." Discretion obviously was the better part of valour this time around. 

That didn't sound good. Of course, it was possible UNCLE was compromised and there was someone inside leaking information, but it was just as likely that Briggs was a paranoid son of a bitch who thought everyone else was out to get him, including an entire alphabet soup of government and non-government agencies. That was a better thought than UNCLE having a mole, given Waverly's high hopes for it. 

"The best thing we can do," Napoleon said, hoping he sounded more certain than he felt, "is finish the mission." 

He didn't relish the idea of facing down Briggs again, but UNCLE had crossed paths with him in the first place because he was meant to be laundering money for a number of international crime organisations - his taste for men and rough sex had seemed the easiest way for one of them to get a foot in the door. At least, since his preference for men had been an undisputed fact of every piece of intelligence gathered, there'd been almost no argument about who should take the leading role in this mission and who would provide support. 

Napoleon couldn't imagine that Illya would have gone through with even the mildest version of what he'd experienced that night, let alone allow himself to be beaten to a pulp and found himself in a position where he had to be rescued. He didn't want to think about Illya that way, not even with the undiscussed offer he'd made to be the one providing Napoleon with what he needed, as if he really understood what that offer entailed. 

He'd expected an argument, some kind of disagreement on the subject of how they took things forward, but none was forthcoming. Illya was just finishing off his final slice of pizza and pretending as though that was the most important thing on his mind right now, though Napoleon knew he was using it as a way to not have to say anything. Gaby looked grim but resigned to the idea of moving on with the mission, just nodding once when he looked at her for agreement or otherwise. 

"How?" she asked. "We know your cover's blown, Napoleon. And it's not as if Briggs is going to trust anyone else he encounters, now he knows UNCLE is after him."

"Except he'd probably be happy to finish the job he started with me," Napoleon began. He didn't like the idea, in fact it filled him with a cold feeling that he thought he'd left behind when he first got dragged into the CIA's unlovely embrace, but he had to put it out there as a possibility. "Nothing like a little live bait to get the fish jumping." The expression on both their faces was enough to tell Napoleon just what both Illya and Gaby thought of that idea. He shrugged. "Just a thought."

"Let's keep it that way," Gaby said. "Don't do anything on your own, Napoleon, I mean it."

"I agree with Gaby," Illya said, wiping his hands on a paper napkin. He had demolished the last of the pizza, his usual pragmatic attitude towards food seeing that there were no leftovers to worry about. "Is bad plan, you will not do this."

"Then how do we find out what's going on?" Solo asked. "And establish if Briggs really does have a source inside UNCLE? Our only chance for that is to run things off the books and tell Waverly afterwards, once everything is over."

"If that's how it has to be," Gaby said. "But I have an idea about Briggs."

\---------------

Gaby, it seemed, had been doing a little research on Briggs while Napoleon had been recuperating in hospital - he wasn't really surprised, the only thing that did make him wonder just what she was up to was the amount of information she seemed to have accumulated in a very short space of time. 

"How did you get all this?" he asked, when Gaby pulled out a couple of folders full of financial and other reports on Briggs and his business connections. "I knew you'd been busy, but this is something else."

"I had a lot of time on my hands," Gaby said. "And the boys in Research were very helpful."

Napoleon suppressed a grin, imagining the whirlwind that was Gaby interacting with some of the people who ran UNCLE's Research department - she would come off the better in most situations and that was definitely one of them. They probably hadn't known what had hit them and he wondered just how many other missions had been put on the back burner in order that Gaby got the information she was asking for as a matter of urgency. 

"As long as you didn't make any promises," he said. The last thing UNCLE needed was Gaby leaving a trail of broken hearts through headquarters; one of them having that reputation was enough for any team, so they should keep Gaby's new superpowers firmly under wraps.

"I don't kiss and tell, Napoleon," Gaby replied, with a grin. "You should know me better than that."

Napoleon raised his coffee cup in a silent salute, which Gaby acknowledged with a small nod. Across from them, Illya was already engrossed in one of the files, his ability to concentrate something Napoleon had always envied. He could take in the contents of a file fairly easily himself, but not with the degree of focus that Illya was able to demonstrate - Napoleon found his own thoughts wandering a little, imagining what it would be like to be on the receiving end of that kind of focus, to have Illya concentrating so intently on him and him alone. The thought was more than a little arousing, if he was perfectly honest with himself, and it was only when Gaby prodded him in the side that Napoleon came back to his current surroundings.

"You're staring," she said, quietly, though Napoleon was fairly certain Illya wouldn't have heard them even if she'd spoken normally. "You don't get to do that if you don't want anything to do with us."

"It's not that simple," Napoleon said, picking up one of the other dossiers in the hope this would be enough to remind her they were supposed to be working, not talking about his currently non-existent love life. "Leave me alone."

"It could be that simple," Gaby said. "You're the one who insists on making things complicated. As if you've ever been all that fussy before about who you have sex with."

Napoleon wasn't sure if it was his hiss of in-drawn breath that made Illya look up from the file or whether he hadn't been quite as focussed on what he was reading as Napoleon had thought. He didn't look happy, either way, and suddenly Napoleon was intensely glad that look wasn't directed at him for once. 

"He has right to say no to us," Illya said. 

"You weren't the one he dumped off his lap midway through something going on," Gaby pointed out. 

Napoleon winced. That hadn't been one of his better decisions, except that Gaby had pushed him into having no other choice - he hadn't wanted to have sex with her just because she was offering and she didn't seem to really understand why, even now. 

"I know you feel sorry for me," he began, then continued to talk when it was clear both Gaby and Illya wanted to interrupt, his words overrunning theirs through sheer persistence if nothing else. "It's not that flattering to discover your partners are prepared to have pity sex with you because you need it."

There, Napoleon had finally said it, the thing he'd been thinking all along. Pretty much since he'd said no to Gaby, if he was honest with himself, as he was trying to be right now. 

"You think we pity you," Illya said. He'd put down the dossier and was leaning forward in his seat. "That we are doing favour, to make you feel better but we get nothing from this."

That was the gist of it, Napoleon thought, wasn't it? They'd come up with this half-baked plan between the two of them, giving him what he needed so they could continue to get the best out of him as an agent and stop him getting given back to the CIA. If that wasn't a textbook case of pity sex, Napoleon didn't know what was. 

"Napoleon, you're an idiot," Gaby said. She'd been sitting next to him, though out of arms reach, and now she closed the distance between them, climbing onto his lap just like she had before. "If we want to have sex with you because of pity, why does anyone else do it?" Her hands gripped his wrists, the file he'd been reading crushed between their bodies. "Or do they all pity you too? Poor Napoleon Solo, so sad that everyone has to sleep with him."

"Not _everyone_ ," Napoleon pointed out. "I'm hardly that irresistible."

"Get over here," Gaby said, over her shoulder. Illya was up and moving before she'd finished speaking, pressing his body into the space between Napoleon and the arm of the sofa even though it was a tight fit, his arms coming up to wrap around both of them. "Now, isn't that better?"

It would have been fruitless to struggle, given that he was effectively pinned - Illya's body pressed against his side, an awkward embrace that was still as effective as a straitjacket, while Gaby could easily stop him from pushing her off and also prevented Napoleon from using his hands to get off the sofa at all. The sensation was an odd one, both unfamiliar and unexpectedly comforting. 

"Is not pity," Illya said, his voice low but still audible since he was speaking right by Napoleon's ear. "If it is good for you, is also good for us."

"We're a team." That was Gaby. "Share and share alike, that ought to be our motto."

"Are you already sleeping with Peril?" He hadn't been able to bring himself to ask before, uncertain whether he wanted to know what the answer was and also what he wanted it to be. If Gaby and Illya were an item, he had no intention of getting between them - enticing as that mental image might be - Napoleon might be many things, but he still had some principles left. "No, don't tell me." Ignorance was still bliss, after all. 

"Does it matter?" Gaby replied. That sounded like a 'yes' and Napoleon felt his heart sink. "But, for the record, the answer is 'no'." She didn't sound particularly bothered about this degree of frankness and Napoleon found he envied Gaby, just a little. "I don't think either of us wanted to get into that kind of relationship."

"We are a team," Illya said, tightening his embrace a little. Napoleon was certain his ribs would start to crack if Illya got any more affectionate than this. "Just me and Gaby would be wrong. Something missing."

"Someone," Gaby corrected, letting go of one of Napoleon's hands, her fingers coming up to rest on his jawline and turning his head slightly till he was making eye contact with her, whether he liked it or not. "We'd have been missing _someone_."

"You'll forgive me," Napoleon said, "if this all seems a little too convenient to be true." He was starting to relax a little, settling into Illya's embrace, becoming accustomed to Gaby's weight pressing down on his thighs and leaning against his chest. "Since nobody ever said anything before about wanting to get involved this way..."

"And how exactly would we have started that conversation off?" Gaby asked, with a grin and a tilt of her head in inquiry. "Any tips on how to ensure it went successfully and you didn't think we were offering a pity fuck, since we did so badly last time around?"

She had a point. Napoleon had to admit that, even if the rest of the scenario in which he currently found himself was puzzling in the extreme. It was all a little too much to take in, that was the problem. Not that he was going to struggle against it all, not right now, not when he was warm and relatively comfortable and wondering just who'd crack first and move away.


End file.
